


What Your Body Wants

by LokiOfSassgaard



Series: Sex is Boring [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-08
Updated: 2011-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:29:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6346066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiOfSassgaard/pseuds/LokiOfSassgaard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lost his virginity at 34. Clearly, he just doesn’t know what he wants out of sex. The only way to find that out is to experiment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Your Body Wants

He liked the touching, when it was on his terms. It was new, and his body reacted to it in ways he had never even considered possible. He could feel his pulse rise when John would stroke his back as he passed by him. Sprawling out on the sofa with John’s arms wrapped round him was one of his new favourite ways to pass long hours between cases. It didn’t accomplish anything, but it felt right.

Other times, he hated the touching. It would throw him out of whatever he was working on; uncomfortable tickles when John would touch the back of his neck or rest his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. It made Sherlock want to shout and throw John off of him. He never actually did, opting instead to snarl and tense his muscles, sending a very clear message.

Sometimes, John would try to hug him, come up from behind and wrap his arms round Sherlock’s chest the way he did when they lay on the sofa together. When Sherlock was working, focused on something other than wantin g to be lazy, the pressure of John’s arms wrapped round him was suffocating. Every part of him wanted to run, but he was pinned in place with John’s weight pushing down on his shoulders.

“Get off!” Sherlock snapped, trying to slap John away and failing from the awkward angle.

John backed off, chuckling lightly. “I’d like to,” he said.

“No.” It wasn’t a question. Sherlock didn’t want to and wasn’t going to.

Behind him, he could hear John sigh lightly. Sherlock kept his focus on the slow citric acid drip in front of him, watching its effect on a severed hand. Out of his peripheral, he could see John sitting down on the far end of the table.

“Just, no?” he asked. “Not even going to try again?”

Sherlock sighed. “I believe that is the definition of no,” he said.

He glanced up at John, noting the hints of frustration on the edges of his mouth. He wasn’t going to let this go after all.

“Well, it was your first time,” he pointed out.

“A fact I was already well aware of,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Yes, all right,” John agreed. “But what I’m saying is most people spend their teenage years figuring out what they like. You never did that, so you don’t really know what you like. You’ve got to take the time to find out what your body wants. Find the right kink, or whatever.”

Sherlock finally looked away from his experiment to give John a suitably annoyed look. “I know what I don’t like, and I didn’t like what we did the other night,” he said.

John sighed again. Sherlock wondered if he had some sort of respiratory condition.

“What about it didn’t you like?” he asked.

“All of it.” It was a simple answer that Sherlock didn’t even have to think about.

“Wow,” John said, looking away. “OK. That’s… not something a guy wants to hear.”

Was Sherlock meant to apologise? He couldn’t te ll. John had, after all, very clearly enjoyed himself. He should be the one apologising to Sherlock for making him endure the torture.

“Would you rather I lied to you?” Sherlock asked. “Because I don’t see how that could benefit either of us.”

“No, don’t lie,” John insisted. “That—that’s even worse. It’s good that you’re being honest. At least it lets us figure out where we stand.”

“I don’t want to have sex with you,” Sherlock said simply.

John looked down at the table, trying to hide the hurt from his face. Sherlock had said the wrong thing again, but he still didn’t know what the right thing was. He wasn’t even sure if there was a right thing to say.

“With me?” asked John. “What about with someone else?”

“There isn’t anyone else,” Sherlock pointed out.

“OK.” John nodded. “No, that’s good, I think. We can… that’s something we can work with. Maybe you’re just not…” he trailed off slightly, struggling to keep his voice even. This conversation was upsetting him, and Sherlock began to worry if he was going to have to deal with John crying on him next. “Just not attracted to men. Have you ever been with a woman?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “As I’ve said already, no,” he said tiredly. “I’ve always found them tedious and boring, actually. Much like this conversation.”

“Do you want to?” John asked cautiously. “Be with a woman, I mean.”

“Not particularly,” Sherlock answered. He turned his attention back to his experiment. “And this is the point where you suggest I have sex with one of the various females I know.”

John looked away again. “What if I was there with you?” he asked slowly, but confidently.

Sherlock’s attention snapped back to John. What was he asking? Did he want to watch? Take notes? Show Sherlock what he was doing wrong?

Ah. Yes, of course . John was suggesting a three-some. Sherlock studied him for a moment, looking at his hands and face. John was completely calm. This was not the first time he’d suggested this sort of thing. Most of these suggestions were probably agreed to, judging by the way he asked; just casually enough not to make the prospect seem frightening, and calmly enough to suggest experience.

“If I say yes, will you shut up and leave me alone?” asked Sherlock after a moment.

“This weekend good for you?” John asked by way of an answer.

Of course John would agree to that bargain. It was Sherlock’s turn to sigh.

“Fine. All right. But no-one I know.”

John smiled as he got to his feet. “All right,” he said. “I’ve got my phone. Text me if you need me.”

He left quietly, but Sherlock suddenly found his experiment impossible to focus on. He wasn’t sure why he had agreed to do this ridiculous thing with John. He didn’t want to, but now Joh n would expect it. If he backed out, John would be upset and probably wouldn’t agree to leave him alone ever again. He wouldn’t trust Sherlock to hold to his end of the bargain.

Sherlock got up and stomped off to the sitting room, done with experiments and bargains and John for the day.

 

Sherlock had managed to delete John’s plans for the weekend, going on with his own engagements with minimal interruption. John was staying out of his way, letting Sherlock decide when he wanted to be touched. Maybe he did understand. Maybe it was normal to be uncomfortable at the beginning of a new relationship. John certainly seemed to act like it was normal.

But it wasn’t normal. John also took severed heads and psychotic cab drivers in stride, and even Sherlock knew that these were not the sorts of things normal people dealt with on a daily basis. Sherlock Holmes dealt with these things on a daily basis, and was also reminded on a daily basis just how sta ggeringly and mind-bendingly not normal he was.

John was being patient and understanding in yet another situation where he had no reason to be. He’d been told to his face that his boyfriend? partner? lover? didn't find him attractive and had no desire to have sex with him.

How long would John hold out? Sherlock did like the new closeness this relationship had created. He’d never had anything like this with another person before; never shared personal space and been allowed to touch wherever he wanted whenever he wanted. Would John tire of this? Would he require more? Probably. Almost certainly. The question was that of when. When would he realise that he required more than Sherlock was able and willing to give?

 

He watched John walk out of the sitting room after a declaration of intent to take a shower. John didn’t usually declare this intent; he was a creature of habit, and showered at the same time – or near enough as he could manag e – every day. So why was he telling Sherlock that he was going to shower? Sherlock already knew. John had a habit of stating the obvious, but that was pushing a bit far.

He wanted Sherlock to know that he was doing the same thing he did every evening just after eight. For some reason, he wanted Sherlock to know where he’d be.

Did he expect Sherlock to follow? Was this declaration really an invitation? Damn words and damn their hidden meanings.

He stalled momentarily, trying to figure out what John expected to happen, and whether he’d be upset if whatever he was expecting didn’t happen. When he wanted to, John could pull off some pretty impressive sulking of his own, and Sherlock didn’t like being the cause of this. Not just because John wouldn’t fetch him tea when he was sulking, Sherlock was surprised to find, but also because of the odd sensation that had the habit of lodging itself deep in his chest when John wouldn’t talk to him.

He liked John to be happy, and he liked John to be happy with him.

Sherlock hesitantly rose to his feet and slowly made his way to the loo, hearing the water start to run as he approached the door. He pushed it open and peered inside in time to see John stepping under the water, either not noticing or pretending not to notice that he was being watched. It could be rather difficult to tell at times.

John drew the shower curtain behind him, obscuring Sherlock’s view and forcing him to follow if he wanted to continue to watch.

Maybe John had noticed him lurking in the doorway.

Sherlock briefly contemplated one of his experiments in the kitchen. Could he go back down and work on one? If John was aware of his presence, would he be upset if Sherlock left?

This would be a whole lot easier if John had just told Sherlock what he expected of him, rather than playing this childish guessing game.

John probably wanted Sherlock in the shower with him, a nd Sherlock found that he was just bored enough to comply. He stepped up to the shower, lightly pushing the curtain aside to look at John under the spray. John turned back to look at him, smiling lightly.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll wash your hair.”

Shrugging inwardly, Sherlock undressed himself and stepped into the shower with John. He let himself be guided under the water, which John had set a bit too hot. He closed his eyes at the contact, enjoying the way John’s fingers moved against his scalp as he made sure Sherlock’s hair was good and properly wet. John pulled away for a brief moment, but before Sherlock could wonder why, he heard the shampoo bottle opening and soon John’s hands were back in Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock dipped his head down, giving him easier access without having to strain his shoulder. Sherlock rested his forehead against the scar; long and curved over his shoulder like something casually resting there until John was r eady for it. It started several inches beneath his clavicle and snaked its way up and over his shoulder, ending just on the top edge of his trapezium. It would have been a long, complicated string of surgeries to repair the damage from the bullet that had got in just on the edge of John’s body armour and no doubt destroyed his clavicle and scapula, and no telling the amount of soft tissue damage. He’d have spent countless weeks in traction, and even longer in physio. It was amazing the man could move his arm at all.

Sherlock traced the scar lightly with his fingertips, outlining the jagged edges as he imagined the pins holding everything together and the bits of shrapnel that were likely still lodged deep in the muscle somewhere.

He wondered vaguely whether John would set off the metal detector at the airport. Perhaps a trip to Europe was in order to find out. He could always just ask John, he realised, since the man had clearly had to fly home from Afghanist an, but that wouldn’t be half as fun as finding out first-hand.

John slowly guided his head back under the water, pulling him from his thoughts sooner than he would have liked. He could hear John laughing, barely audible over the spray from the shower.

“You wander off on me again?” John asked as he gently rinsed Sherlock’s hair.

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted.

He leaned down and nipped a light kiss on John’s shoulder, just on the edge of his scar. Immediately after, he realised the mistake as John’s hands moved from his head down to his back. Before John could reach his intended target, Sherlock stiffened and grabbed his wrists, pulling John’s hands off of him.

“No,” he said. “I told you, I don’t want that.”

John blinked at him. “I thought you…” He sighed, looking up at Sherlock’s face. “Right,” he said.

Sherlock suddenly realised that John’s erect penis was pressing against his thigh. He should have noticed that much sooner, but he had been too distracted by his own thoughts to even care what John was doing. He let his gaze drop to John’s penis for a moment before returning his attention to his face, and to the look of rejection and frustration plastered all over it.

“I’ll uhm, still be a while,” John said, turning away.

Embarrassment.

Not sure what else to do, Sherlock stepped out of the shower. He didn’t exactly want to, but he didn’t want to help, or even witness John get himself off, either.

Was he supposed to say something? Probably. What? He had no idea.

Realising a lack of any other options, Sherlock stepped out of the shower and dried himself. He’d liked the time spent in the shower; the closeness and the ability to touch where he wanted that he hadn’t been afforded Before. There had to be some way to keep that without it resulting in an expectation of sex. Perhaps John just needed to be conditioned.

“Ar e you still out there?” John asked, raising his voice to be heard over the water.

Framed as a question, but not meant as one. John was asking him to leave. He couldn’t perform knowing that Sherlock was on the other side of a thin, vinyl divider.

“Just leaving,” Sherlock said.

He left his clothes on the floor and took the towel to his room. Today was definitely shaping up to be a pyjama day.


End file.
